


Cat's Cradle Etiquette

by starvels (dinosaur)



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Bisexual Steve Rogers, F/M, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Multi, Mutual Pining, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Politics, Relationship Negotiation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-05-21 13:09:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14915973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinosaur/pseuds/starvels
Summary: Their marriage is absolutely, purely a business arrangement from start to finish.Unfortunately, Steve’s heart didn’t get the memo.(Luckily, maybe, it just might be, that Tony’s heart didn’t, either.)





	1. Epilogue: Tethered

**Author's Note:**

> a veryyy long time ago, someone prompted in the kink meme for more arranged marriage and blah blah months later, here we go! 
> 
> this fic will update every week or two, probably on mondays! thanks :)
> 
> title/chapter headings from [tethered by sleeping at last](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WxEL-tJyK7c)

There used to be a story.

A tale about triumph and treasure, set to rest under the castle Steve calls home.

An entrance buried in cloves, sheltering a secret passageway to a series of rooms molded from molten rock. There, in the third of three doors, a lake reflecting back itself. At the center, buried in ore and old blood, not a sword, but a power disguised as a weapon. And to its wielder, furious might, the ability to save whatsoever their heart chose.

23 hours after the state secretary informs him that Anthony Stark has accepted the arrangement, Steve sits in front of the castle’s garden gates and thinks of the story.

Thinks how much he would give to raise that sword and have the power to parry fate on the edge of its blade.

It’s not the worst thing, by far.

Steve’s saving his country, doing his duty, marrying. He’ll be allowed two advisors to leave with him. He won’t be totally alone. His people will be safe, cared for with political resurgence and economic growth. He has no right to ask for more for himself.

But he’s never met Anthony Stark, and now their lives are bound together.

He closes his eyes, one last time.

And goes.


	2. we were married by the ocean

“You don’t get to say that to me,” Tony hisses as the high judge rambles on about duty and nuptial arrangements.

Steve winces and clenches his hand harder around his wrist.

He hopes the motion isn’t obvious to the rest of the hall.

It’s fit to bursting with court members and councils, holographic and physical and all riveted. Alloy-sewn flowers in the colors of Steve’s herald fill the ceilings and sweet, starkberry brushed fairy lights float in the corners. Tucked as they are, to the side, Steve and Tony are wholly inconsequential except for how this is entirely about them. Steve’s sweating in full court regalia, weighed down with medals. He knows he looks flushed and awkward next to the gold-gown, scepter holding, imposing cool presence of Tony.

Then again, he never had a chance of holding up against _Tony of Stark_ , so he supposes that’s alright.

Less alright, is the seething glare Tony is somehow managing to give Steve out of the corners of his eyes as he continues to smile out at the whole of their two courts and several neighboring ones, all gathered for their wedding.

Their wedding.

“- The Golden Avenger, Child of Future and Foresight, Heir to Westhold,” the priest continues.

Steve breathes out and tries to look impassive and like he’s fit to marry a crown heir.

A rise in the noise blooms then – the high judge asking something of the presiding two councils, he can’t quite focus on it over the noise.

Possibly their writ of glowing approval for the matrimony. Maybe, they should be re-asking Tony, instead.

Just a thought.

A foot steps on his.

Steve plasters his smile on and steps back.

Tony mutters a curse.

From the front of the pews, Steve can easily see Sam, bright and catching in court blue. He’s watching Steve, looking both amused and exasperated. Beside him, Sharon’s sleek, serious in uniform, and making a subtle sharp line motion with a single finger, threatening retribution for misbehavior. Steve resists the urge to point at Tony and tell her it was his fault first.

The high judge raises the elegant coat of arms screen in the air.

Usually it displays just Tony’s, but now both of their heraldry have been redesigned into one, locked onscreen in a combination of bold embers, cog-worked stars, metal bound circles. Familiar colors to Steve because both of their courts are red, black, but the blue of Steve’s has been combined with gold, now, into some sort of array, a flower, perhaps? Steve didn’t approve the design. But, it will be their symbol. Steve looks away.

The judge’s declaration of, “Bound, together,” rings through the high arched hall.

The words falls into quiet with a sense of finality. It’s a dull sort of impersonality, professional as can be.

Yesterday, Steve gave his bloodwork and voiceprint to a document that obligated him to this arrangement, He’s already legally oathed. This is superfluous.

Not how Steve had ever hoped his wedding to be.

Tony and Steve haven’t touched at all. They only met at the final negotiations last week. Steve knows nothing of him aside from his formal titles, and a vast detail of trade opportunities pursuant to his own country’s rather desperate needs. Tony hadn’t even known Steve’s formal titles.

The crowd is rising now, in the hall and through the screens to the millions watching. A clamor of people united.

Over the rush, the high priest announces, “You may kiss.”

They _may_ , Steve thinks hysterically.

But _will they_?

The room is already turning in a wave towards them though, eager for a display. Steve knows they must. It’s not that Tony isn’t attractive, he thinks, turning towards Tony, careful of both their regalia. He really, really quite _is_ , in a rather inappropriately unfair way that Steve can’t let himself linger on. It’s that – Tony’s eyes, distant and beautiful like an ocean behind glass – reflect back to Steve the very real truth:

They know nothing of each other, and now they are bound to each other.

It’s Tony that leans in first, the barest softening of his face as he watches Steve struggle to not overstep any more. To not take more advances. To push himself through this one more thing.

The kiss is brief, the merest dry touch of Tony’s warm lips to Steve’s own, held long enough for the cameras to capture, but cut short enough to make the sternest court member satisfied. It’s nice, not messy, with no embrace.

There’s no sparks, no hint of the flame their PR people have supposedly been playing at for weeks.

Steve hopes that isn’t on screen.

The crowd roars like it isn’t, anyway.

“Do your duty, Captain,” Tony says, just to Steve under the noise, formal to the core.

“Yes, Prince,” Steve says and does.


	3. we were tethered by the sea

 

Tony’s arm is cold and solid under his all the way out of the hall. Cameras wink, one after another.

Three days long is the standard Stark marriage festival.

Banquets and dances and a trillion and one minor court appearances to show the people of their nations their commitment to this union. It’s no secret that both of their nations need the trade contracts their marriage creates. Tony’s – access to the palladium placer deposits along the mountains of Steve’s home land. Steve’s – airspace support and waterway access to 3 treaty’d countries on the other side of Tony’s.

What remains to be seen if that’s all there is between them. For the sake of their people, their political clout, their own safety; Steve and Tony have to play is that it’s not.

Steve smiles himself sore throughout the first evening of niceties. He answers too-curious questions with an open-shouldered aw-shucks shrug and a “Mustn’t say too much about royal business, _you_ know how it is, Duchess Caria.”

Duchess Caria, “ _with a C, darling,”_ twitters a laugh and flings her perfume everywhere.

Steve resists a sneeze.

Tony is good at this, though. He plays the ballroom on the opposite side as Steve, but manages to circle back and overlap with Steve just at the right moments, when Tony’s presence is necessary.

His hand touches Steve’s side, their elbows press together, and Tony closes the space between them to everyone but each other for just long enough each time to imply intimacy, to convey that they are _together_ in this.

It affects Steve in a way the kiss didn’t.

“Yes, the Captain does look just dashing in this light, doesn’t he,” Tony twinkles at the duke in front of them and uses the hand around Steve’s waist to smooth down the back of his uniform jacket.

Steve’s chest thumps uncomfortably.

“Not near so much,” Steve says, letting his eyes linger on the gold pierced curve of Tony’s ear, the sharp dark blue eyeliner that turns his eyes to skies, the soft elegant arch of lips, just to memorize the way it makes Tony swallow hard, before turning back to the duke, “as His Royal Highness, don’t you agree, Your Grace?”

The portly duke laughs, “Oh the both of you are wondrous.”

“Well matched,” the equally short earl beside the duke nods, necklaces jingling.

Steve and Tony smile at them both, demur.

They move on, leaving a lasting, loving impression.

Something strange and sticky curls in Steve’s stomach. And it’s not just the heavy food, the rich alcohol.

The first night stretches long into the morning and while Steve is glad (so incredibly very, fervently glad) that both of their countries respect active consent and have firm laws against _consummation_ requirements, he does wish the alternative wasn’t to try and ogle them as political spectacles instead. The robotic servers are tireless, circling with drinks and chocolates. Steve sequesters himself for a break beside an impossibly winding staircase with blissfully only Sam for company, out of the paths of the holo-cams and people that cling to his arms. Keeping up a steady stream of conversation with Sam is easy, even as Steve tires.  

Sometime around 2 or 3, Tony catches his eye across the room. In front of him is a range of Generals, too many stars too count. Tony tilts his head just the barest amount. Call for aid, Steve hears.

“Right back, Sam,” he says, and hands him his water.

Sam gives him a confused look.

“Ton – His Royal Highness,” Steve gestures at where Tony is.

“Yeah?” Sam drawls.

“Needs me,” Steve says, and instantly regrets the words as Sam looks over at Tony knowingly.

“Does his Royal _Hind_ ness now?”

“Stop,” Steve flicks Sam’s arm, willing away his blush. He has _not_ been looking at how well Tony’s gown defines his chest or hips or _anything_. Other than when he has to. For his people, Steve reminds himself.

Sam laughs, hand wrapping around Steve’s elbow for just a moment and Steve can’t help leaning into the touch, to make Sam’s smile go soft. “Yeah, yeah, Cap. Go appreciate his hindness.”

Steve shakes his head once more at Sam, but goes. If he puts an extra bit of sway into his hips when he does, just to give Sam another _hindness_ to appreciate, who’s to know but them.

He’s pretty sure several more people hear Sam’s clap of laughter, though.

Steve’s grinning when he stops next to Tony.

Something strange flows across the smooth lines of Tony’s face.

He turns away from Steve fast, falls back into the conversation with a precise play of expected awareness: Steve follows it, fits himself in at his side. When Tony moves, Steve moves into the space he leaves, brushed their arms and Tony leans back, makes it look natural.

Already, Steve is too used to this.

The conversation is about people Steve has met, can name, but can’t recall any details about whatsoever. He bites his tongue to focus.

“I believe Lady Knight Meredith wished to retire, actually, General,” Tony says, just the right amount of polite disappointment in his voice to not be construed as a dismissal.

He’s dangerously good at this.

And here, Steve is already learning to be good as well.

He nods his head somberly along, “Yes, I heard Sir Meredith speaking with the Viscount of Devray as I was coming over, about the late hour.” Not quite a lie. On the left of the room, Steve can see who he’s 86% sure is the lady knight yawning, leaning into a pillar as the Viscount rambles with their hands.

“Reasonable,” Tony takes his advance further, “Given her work with the Medical Oversight Committee all this week. The Crown extends the utmost gratitude and –”

“Please, Your Royal Highness, you have more than kind, more than generous with honors,” The general waves a hand firmly, “We _thank_ you.”

Steve watches Tony’s face, the way his cheeks warm just a tint, the way his body curls as if rolling the compliment over and through him. The way his posture shifts at the end, as if the compliment loses its grip and slips off. His half-wistful upturn of lips.

Court gossip says Tony Stark carries a mountain of ego. There’s probably even some truth to it.

But, Steve thinks, the court probably missed the humble layers of earth behind that icy rock surface, the simple scientific facts:

Prince Tony Stark is uncomfortable being complimented for being kind. Tony desperately wants to protect his people. Tony married Steve, even while his advisors probably said to keep looking, that Steve’s country needed these trade routes but Tony’s could survive. Prince Tony Stark knew all this and didn’t use the opportunity to cut Steve’s people down or flex his power over Steve himself.

Beyond insisting on formality. Steve winces, pulls it off as a contracted yawn.

It plays well.

The general laughs, “Yes, yes. To bed with all of us.”

Tony gives a polite grin, an incline of his head of thanks.

Sam’s still holding Steve’s drink as they pass by out of the hall and he waggles his eyebrows a bit at Steve. Frankly, Steve deserves another medal to pin to his uncomfortable uniform for not tripping him.

The herald announces Steve and Tony’s exit as they leave together, if not _together_.

Down the zigzagging halls of Tony’s home and Steve’s assignment, across to the living wing. It’s a dry sort of company, really. Tony is stiff for the first time all night under his hand. Steve tries to move away a bit, to give him space, but that only seems to make Tony more tense.  

When they finally slow down, and Steve knows what’s going to come next, he’s almost thankful for it. The silence is worse than anything.

“So, what _was_ that stunt back _there_?” Tony asks.

And there. Finally, they’ve come back to that.

Back to Steve’s embarrassing moment of open-heartedness, meeting Tony in person for the first time. Seeing the slant of Tony’s cheekbone, the sure mark of laughter around his eyes and feeling his heart pick up, calling Tony _Tony_ quietly in the council ready-room just before the wedding, smiling stupidly, feeling like he was sharing a joke. Finally they’re back to the way Tony stared at him like he was speaking a dead language, paled and then ground his teeth. He’d flung himself from the room to be rid of Steve, then barely looked at him, then turned irate.

Then they were married.

Steve’s cheeks are flushed.

“We worked well together tonight,” Steve tries to parlay, “Let’s not mar our success. You were great. Watching the way you play politics is. . . it’s beautiful. It’s an honor.” He means it.

A roll of the Tony’s arm muscles under Steve’s hand. He pulls away. Steve lets him, curling his hand closed.

“How dare you,” Tony sneers, cold and biting, “First, to presume to call me by my first nam –“

“I meant no –“

“Instead of my _title_. And second,” Tony raises his voice, “to imply that this is some sort of happy,” he spits out the word, “marriage motivated by anything other than _economic necessity_.”

Steve rubs his thumb along his belt and wishes he had his shield on him, or better – (worse, he chides himself) a stick of charcoal to draw the anger, the resilient self-defense in Tony’s eyes and heart.

“I simply,” Steve tries again, “meant that I look forward to getting to know you.”

Tony scoffs and one of the strips of soft blue code at the bottom of the wall makes a sharp beep like its somehow agreeing.

“Look,” Steve says, temper flaring, “neither of us chose this out of any sense more than duty. I sure didn’t. But, if you’ll _allow_ , your _Highness_ , we can make it into more than that. We can build it into something our own.”

Their PR teams will help them build a grand play, but. Steve’s never been much for living by other people’s rules and he’s never been much of an actor. He’d rather be real. He’s rather have the real them, as far from fairytale as it is. Even with Tony’s prickliness. Maybe because of that.

It’s hardest to be married to a figure. Infinitely preferable, is being married to a person.

Tony’s eyes flicker with annoyance, then go soft with something, before locking down into polite vagueness with a smile.

He walks past Steve, his voice trailing back, “I don’t know anything about you. You could be a shitshod architect.”

Steve presses his hand briefly to his nose and pinches, even as he follows.

It’s been a very long few months and an even longer day.

“We are now,” Steve pauses over the word husband, the idea of marriage, “partners. Shouldn’t give each other the benefit of the doubt, to find out about each other?”

“I’ve never not known a business partner before I got,” he pauses, just the slightest, “ into bed with them,” Tony finishes, pointed as a diamond drill bit.

As he walks, his fingers tap together and the lights come on along the hall a vague red gold overlaying the blue, coding visible in the wallpapering. A contradiction of a place, this land is, Steve thinks. Technology to the ceilings, but archaic nuptial law allowing the council to use its heir apparent as a business token to solve its debt.

But, then again, Tony doesn’t seem like a pawn.

 _No_ , Steve thinks, looking at the curves of his shoulders in his regal gown and cloak, the sword-like industrial ear piercing, the scars underneath his ruby rings, the hard hold of his spine even as tired as he must also be – _Tony seems like a King._

“I wasn’t aware,” Steve rolls the words over his tongue. Frustrated as he might be, he’s still in Tony’s territory here, is now sworn to stay, and they both know it. “That fraternization was allowed in your crown corporation bylaws.”

Tony comes to an abrupt stop.

“Was that a joke?”

Steve stops and turns back to him. “No, just truth.”

Silence for a moment where they watch each other.

“Shame,” Tony says, smiling at Steve for real, for the first time, “I would have liked it more if it was.”

And Steve has to bite his tongue to not ask what else Tony would like.

Tony gives him that awful, formal tilt of the head, and walks off. Steve watches the light catch the waves of his hair, the trail of red-gold after him.

 _Don’t go there_ , he orders himself. _You’re not to go after him, Captain._

In the quiet of his own head, he still calls his husband _Tony_ and closes his eyes against the rush it sends through his chest.

He turns his back on the well-lit hall and goes back the way they came. They’ve got two more days of marriage celebration, and a lifetime of being bound together ahead of them.


	4. we tied string around our fingers

Steve’s awake before dawn.

He’ll get used to the new timezone soon, he’s sure, but for now – he curls into the high thread count sheets and refuses to move. It’s cold. Or, his memories are cold. Something slithers through his mind like a forgotten nightmare, but at least solid thoughts stay blessedly distant.

He dozes.

However many hours later, the security system lights up with a soft blue tinge along the molding of the room. Steve blinks his eyes free of the sleep, blurring the lighting to make it seem like he’s in a sky. The floor to ceiling windows turn opaque before shifting into informational screens. A calendar. Bright, grouped charts and photos of important officials, directions, even. There’s a feast today, a city tour, an art gallery showing, another dance. They’re all available for him to digitally wander through.

Four days ago, Steve was having a crash course in Stark technology. Two weeks ago, Steve thought his city’s underground system upgrading to high speed trains was the height of technological advancement.

This is a bit like jumping into the milky way, head first.

“Good morning, Captain Rogers,” the system says, disturbingly lifelike.

Is it rude to tell a computer to be quiet?

“No sound,” Steve tries, “please?”

 _Acknowledged_ the screen displays. Sedate text on the right of the screen.

_Here is your schedule today._

“Great,” Steve says.

He hates waking up in a bad mood, but. Sam’s off in a separate wing of the castle and Sharon chose living quarters in the city and there’s a full two days of pleasantries ahead of him. And his husband either thinks he’s something to be tolerated, or something to be disappointed in and –

 _Either shit or get off the pot, Steve_ , Bucky laughs at him in his head.

Steve presses his palms to his eyes.

 _I miss you,_ Steve thinks back.

And then he really is talking to himself. He lugs himself out of bed then because there’s that’s the more appealing option.

At least the shower doesn’t speak.

He flurries through his morning routine, chooses another of the court stylist’s carefully laid out looks, this one in matte grey and blue. It’s soft, hugging his chest close, but allowing lines for weapons if he was wearing them.

He’ll save that conversation for later, he thinks ruefully and checks the screen to find the way to the breakfast hall.

Three turns, seven minutes, and only nods exchanged with patrolling guards in red and gold later – he’s there. The room’s intimidating, high ceilings and white wide open space, with sedate gold inlay, but not so much as Tony, sitting at the table as a sharp powerful contrast to the bright room, suit dark with red accents. The row of piercings along his ears are magnets for Steve’s eyes.

He coughs, “Highness.”

“Captain,” Tony glances up from his fruit, eyes catching and then dropping back down, fast.

Steve smooths a hand down his vest. Reminds himself to compliment the stylist.

“Is anyone joining us?” he asks. Only two guards at the far side of the room and them, the room almost echoes.

“No,” Tony shakes his head, twirling the fork, “Traditional for newlyweds to be allowed the morning after their marriage alone.”

“Right,” Steve says weakly. _No consummation law_ rings on repeat in his head. _No consummation law_.

Tony’s lips twitch like he’s hearing it. He sits next to Tony and they eat.

The table, Steve realizes somewhere around his third egg, is what Tony is looking down at, not his fruit. It’s a screen too, with some kind of blueprint on it. He’s fiddling with the numbers, adding and re-adding like the result isn’t what he wants to see.

“Maybe the numbers are wrong?” Steve broaches eventually.

Tony sweeps the screen away with his fingertips. “No,” his mouth twists, “They’re not.”

Right.

Steve swallows the runny yolk.

They finish like that, Tony picking at his fruit and Steve forcing his way through the amount of protein he knows he needs.

“No fruit for you?” Tony breaks the silence, head propped in his hand.

Steve glances down at his plate and then at the food spanning the table. “I uh.”

“You _uh_?”

Steve rubs his thumb along the curve of his plate, talks more to it than Tony, “I can taste the chemicals.”

“What?” Tony sits straight up.

“You use something,” Steve mutters. A talking blue-lighted fertilizer, maybe, Steve thinks snidely and keeps to himself. “On the crops here. It’s just different. I’m sure I’ll get used to it.”

“No,” Tony snaps, “What does it taste like? Was it only here in the castle?”

Steve blinks at him, “Like _chemicals_. And yeah. I’ve only had food in the castle. Yeah,” he trails off, staring.

Tony presses his fingers to his lips and grunts in acknowledgment.

There’s an awkward silence.

“I’m not judging,” Steve can’t resist, “I’m sure the quality is fine.” He drudges up a memory, “I read that you genetically engineer a lar –“

“I know.”

“Right.”

Silence again.

They’re such fucking strangers. They know nothing about each other. Frustration breaks a wave across Steve’s mood, dissipates almost in the same second across the rock of his resolve. He needs this to work. His country needs this to work.

“Sorry,” Steve offers, in case that helps at all.

“Are you apologizing for having tastebuds?” Tony sounds tired, but he actually smiles a little at Steve.

“Sure,” Steve says.

Tony shakes his head, but he looks a little lighter.

Steve can’t help smiling back.

“So,” he says.

“So.”

“Tastebuds aside,” Steve taps his fingers against the table and it lights up and then goes dark. He has to remember that. “The computer said we have a schedule for today?”

“Today’s celebratory,” Tony waves a hand, “Tomorrow’s administrative.”

“Can we start with the city tour?” Steve asks, mind flicking through the listed activities.

Tony glances over at him.

“Or,” Steve stumbles, “if there’s a set order, that’s fine too.”

“There’s not,” Tony allows. “But why the city?”

 _I feel lonely_ , Steve thinks. _I want to see your people who are now my people. I was raised in a single dirty room in most overcrowded place in my country. Castles are foreign ground to me, but cities –_

“It seems like a nice day,” he says instead.

Tony glances out at the gigantic windows, the splay of the morning horizon against the fields, the cliffs leading to the shimmering sea. It’s picturesque. A sight fit for royalty, for daydreams. Something crosses Tony’s face, distant like unfamiliarity.

“So it does,” he says eventually.

“Alright.”

Tony gathers the guards while Steve gathers the dishes into piles, helps the cleaning staff load them on the cart. The youngest one is Judy, Steve learns, and she likes making the petite scones best. When Tony comes back with their escort, he glances at Steve’s handiwork and quietly thanks the staff. They’re casual, more than courteous, with him.

Mark of a good leader, Steve thinks. Mark of a good husband. He bites his lip.

As they come out the doors into the sunlight, Tony takes his arm, and Steve finds himself falling back into the strange easy awareness of last night. They move as one through the courtyards till they reach the edge of the estate.

Just beyond the embankment, the city spills over land and falls down hills, stretching to the sky.

It’s overwhelming.

A slapdash of metal and glass and green. Meridians with sprouting trees in shocking purple. Civilians in bright textures, dresses, caps, carrying screens like Tony’s or children in their arms with equal joy. Some kind of power converters on roofs and public transit across the skyline. His eyes are too wide, trying to take it all in. So many of the buildings have irregular round forms with that familiar blue, not the smudged blocks that Steve’s familiar with. His brief about the Stark administration included this, the work that Howard Stark did, ideas overflowing his offices and onto the streets of the cities in the nation. It was all very positive and celebratory of the late King.

There’s a crosswalk sign in front of them. Somehow moving itself closer and closer. Right in front of them. Nearly on top of them, too fast for Steve to find out how the hell - he nearly breaks his neck trying to jerk back from it, until it passes through him. He exhales too hard.

The sign pauses at the end of the road, pivots with an older person holding a bag of bright fruit.

It’s just a projection, he realizes. It follows people, moving back and forth across the street as they do. Tony actually chuckles beside him, more a vibration against Steve’s shoulder than a sound.

“It’s incredible,” Steve says, meaning this, meaning the hanging gardens above houses, the solar panel street lights, the eccentric colored shop fronts and the raucous sound of a market nearby.

Meaning more the quiet way Tony seems to finally, maybe, be relaxing.

Tony shrugs a bit, smile playing at his pretty lips and steers them towards the sound. “It’s The Expo,” Tony says and Steve hears the capitalization.

Steve wracks his brain, can only come up with, “Thought that was annual, in summer?”

Something between a nod and a head shake from Tony. “It was. Decided it should be all yearly every five years. Second year I –“ here, he stumbles.

 _Ascended after your parents were killed._ That was a short paragraph in the briefing.

“Took over?” Steve overs, softly.

“Right.” Tony closes his eyes for a second and then seems to draw his people skills up like a shield. “So we’re in the 8th month, this time,” Tony continues.

Around them, the people watch curiously, but don’t interrogate. They’re supposed to be putting on a show, Steve remembers. He shifts his center more towards Tony, lets himself smile when Tony explains a bit about the city planning, the flow of traffic towards The Expo and away from it. The streets are crowded but not packed, easy to navigate in work hours and Steve finds himself moving in step with the civilians.  

This is a rhythm he knows.

The come up to The Expo. Misshapen boxes and triangles of stands sprout from the ground, holding everything from what looks like kitchen knives redesigned into a pocketknife to massive robots with garden gloves for hands, towering over kids with remotes a quarter their size. It’s all arranged in what maybe is usually a pedestrian street, with a stripe of a waterway in the middle. There’s someone with orange hair and a lab coat leaning over it by them, holding what looks like a metallic fish.

“We’ve got just an hour,” Tony says, almost apologetic as Steve looks from one thing to the next.

Oh. Right. State lunch, Steve remembers vaguely. And Steve was probably late to breakfast.

“Okay.”

He loses himself in the swirl of colors and inventions anyways.

Everything is so well crafted, everyone so kindly polite. Warmth blooms in Steve’s chest. These could be his people too, soon. Not just in state, but in spirit, in solid tangible belonging.

Steve yearns.

Tony isn’t amazingly patient, but he’s calm, finds people to talk to as Steve crouches with a child holding a handful of metal cards to learn a new game. He waits until Steve reaches the end of the main plaza to place a hand on his arm again.

“Time,” Steve sighs.

“Well,” Tony directs them to a break in the stands, “No need to sound so disappointed by being alone in my company.”

“No, I wasn’t –“

“It’s fine.”

“It’s just a nice –“

“Nice day, yes.”

“Right.”

“Right.”

It’s awkward, Tony’s hand looped over Steve’s elbow, the heat of their bodies together.

Annoyance bubbles in Steve’s throat. He wishes they could just fucking talk about this, _‘Hi, we’re married. It’s political. It’s awkward. Let’s get to know each other. I’ve barely spent any time alone with you at all, actually.’_

But they’re never alone.

The guards close in even further as they head back to the castle and then they’re back to the side entrance they used to come out. The singing of the city recedes behind them.

“I suppose we didn’t really do a tour of the city,” Steve says, biting at his lip.

“It’s fine,” Tony waves a hand.

“It won’t cause,” Steve pauses, glances at their guard.

“No one will remark on it, Captain. You’ve done your duty,” Tony pulls him along down the East wing. It’s the more public one, Steve’s deduced. The one he’ll get to associate in the coming days with a conflicting sense of familiarity and dread, he predicts.

He holds in another sigh, knowing it won’t help. “Wasn’t really thinking about the _duty_ of it,” he mumbles.

Tony either doesn’t hear him or pretends not to.

Lunch is in the informal hall.

“Shit,” Steve mutters when they walk in and the guard to his left coughs like hiding a chuckle.

“You’ll be fine,” Tony says, confidence sweeping across his shoulders like a bespoke cape.

 _This_ is informal? Steve thinks, staring at the room.

It’s just as intricately crafted as the formal hall. Yesterday, Steve had stamped over his awe during the reception with his aggravation at Tony for being aggravated at him. But here, now, there’s an entire wall gilded with some combination of rich metals, the designs almost like blueprints, arching in ways Steve can decipher, all the way from the ceilings to the beautiful stone floors. Pillars pull down from the high arched ceilings with exposed inner workings, like showing off the technology needed to keep up the room. Everywhere, the blue of the computer system lingers, turns the gold tones brilliant.

Their informal hall is a large sitting room with some chairs and some hand crafted furniture.  

“Sure,” Steve says vaguely.

He’s not fine, really.

The food is good, but overbearingly rich and he’s having trouble keeping up with the accents from the constitutional oversight representatives and he hasn’t seen Sam or Sharon in 18 hours now and it doesn’t matter, but. He doesn’t know anyone. Tony’s marble next to him, beautiful and carved into a masterpiece of public performance.

Three hours in, Steve begins to wonder if they should have had a brief for this: Expect to live half your life at meals.

He leans into Tony’s side, turns his head, “Is this a normal meal length?”

Tony rumbles a fake laugh, pressing a hand into Steve’s side, whispers back, “It’s a celebration, Captain.”

“I really have to pee,” Steve says, blandly.

This time, Tony’s laugh is real. Steve can tell by the startled inhale at the beginning, the way it curls more like a giggle and unintentionally rubs both of their sides together. It’s terribly attractive. Steve glances under his eyelashes and catches the grin before it folds itself away on Tony’s face. Tries to engrave it in his memory so it’s not lost.

“Permission to scout for a bathroom, Highness?” Steve asks.

“Granted, soldier,” Tony says, leaning briefly into Steve as he gets up.

It doesn’t feel forced.

It’s a bright spot in the afternoon, as it drudges on and on and turns into a sort of tea time, but with endless wedding recaps and light alcoholic drinks instead of tea. Tony goes tense and temperamental at length, which doesn’t help Steve’s mood either.

It winds down eventually into the artist showcase the computer mentioned – performances cropping up like lilies, the lunch tables breaking down and up somehow into gallery walls displaying metal work, paintings, more and more media spreading out across the hall like spring blooming in rainbows.

“Whoa,” he can’t help saying.

“It’s for you,” Tony’s quiet, beside him at the remaining table, looking out at the room dancing around them.

Steve blinks at the side of his face, looks back at a person hauling a giant display of intricate rugs into the room. “Why?” he asks, before he can think about if it’s rude.

“The court knows your schooling history,” Tony pauses, then doesn’t say anything else.

Steve’s pretty sure why. “Must’ve been a short briefing,” he says, keeping his voice empty.

Against him, Tony’s shrug is almost imperceptible.

There’s another sigh building in Steve’s chest. He stands instead. “Is it alright to peruse?”

“Yes, yeah –“

Steve nods to him without really looking, and tries to lose himself in the works. He’s probably being derelict in his duty but he can’t bring himself to care. He’s tired. The room ought to echo The Expo, but somehow, the magic of the day seems to have lost its glossy paint. Every conversation grates on Steve’s nerves, leaves him with more splinters. He’s not familiar with the brands of paint or the inner court artistic movements, he can’t keep up with the technical terms.

_I left my art to learn how to shoot people. Did your schooling brief end with that?_

Steve shuts the words behind his teeth. He’s leaning against a thankfully blank pillar, using another wine glass as a prop when he spots a familiar head edging into the room.

 “Sam,” he says, out loud.

He drops the glass onto a nearby waiter’s tray with a short, “Thanks,” and weaves his way towards the entrance.

Sam’s tilting his head at the display next to far wall - a giant assembly of fruit in the shape of some sort of bird. He probably likes it, Steve thinks with a rush of fondness, wondering for the first time if the pieces were chosen with a directed purpose towards him and his people.

“Sam,” he says, too loud, drawing up short behind Sam’s back.

He turns like he’s unsurprised, small smile breaking across his face. Sam draws both of them with an easy shuffle over to the wall – out of the way of traffic. He looks good, shoulders relaxed under his dress uniform, cheek bones highlighted with something silvery and lovely. Steve clenches his fingers so Tony Stark’s court doesn’t see him cupping another man’s face in his hands.

“Should you look that depressed,” Sam asks, raising one eyebrow now, “surrounded by this much gold?” he nudges Steve with his foot, “Or is it just my face?”

“Sam,” Steve says again, half to choked, now.

“Hey,” Sam’s hands rub soothing lines up and down his arms. “What’s going on, Cap?”

“Nothing, just.”

_I miss home. I miss you and Sharon and my simple dreary apartment and I hate it more when this place tries to mimic it than if they’d just goddamn acknowledge the truth._

Sam eyes him for a second, and Steve wonders what he’s seeing, whether Steve’s self-resolve is etched across his face in crumbling old-castle lines. He agreed to this. But he didn’t agree to all of _this_.

 _They did all this for me, Sam. But it’s not me,_ he wants to say.

A small quirk of a smile for Steve, then.

“Yeah,” Sam agrees.

Somehow, that’s enough.

“How” Steve’s heart pangs, “are you doing?”

Sam shrugs.

Of the two of them, he’s the less likely to linger in a hurt, less of a stewer and more a brewer. This isn’t a daydream for either of them, but at the least, there’s less nitpicking at Sam, less rules for who he is going to be, here. Steve’s not going to begrudge him that, not after Sam only came here because Steve needed him to. Sam goes on rubbing Steve’s arms and Steve goes on leaning into it as much as public decency allows. Tension bleeds out the longer they linger, but eventually the moment slowly slips away and Steve makes himself exhales and draw back a bit.

“Thank you,” Steve says, quietly

Sam does that same shoulder-roll shrug he always does like, _yeah I’m a great influence, what about it_ and aims a soft upper cut to Steve’s jaw. “I’m due for a logistics meeting in a bit, otherwise I’d stay with your sad face.”

“Anything fun?”

“Nah,” Sam leans into the wall and away from Steve. “Medical law paperwork. Meshing administrative systems for veteran PT services, etcetera,” he waves his hand.

“You’re gonna hit em where they don’t know its coming.”

Sam grins, “Would I?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah I probably would,” he laughs and touches Steve’s arm lightly again, “Don’t be a stranger, yeah?”

Heat, against the back of Steve’s eyes. “I’m trying.”

 _They’re such fucking strangers,_ Steve hears in his own voice.

“Jeeze, are you making him cry again, Sam?”

Steve jerks his eyes from Sam’s face to find Sharon standing beside them, plain-uniformed, with her fingers thumbed in her pockets, handgun in her side holster. She’s holding a small grin for him like a bright peach.

“Sharon,” Steve manages.

“Nah,” Sam answers, “You know him, emotional as a summer storm.”

“True,” Sharon says and flicks her fingers at Steve’s wrist. “I get a hug or not, Steven?”

“Why do I put up with you two if all you do is make fun of me,” Steve says, as he’s grabbing for Sharon to not-quite-not-bury his face in her shoulder.

“We’re pretty,” Sam says, with no inflection.

Something suspiciously finger shaped prods his side. Steve grabs at it, catches Sam’s fingers as they’re trying to retreat, and pulls him in. Sam sighs like it’s a great nuisance, but closes the circle easily, sighing quietly into Steve’s neck.

They stay like that, for one long moment and Steve takes deep breaths like he can hold this forever in his lungs.

“Alright, alright,” Sharon says eventually, huffing her ‘I’m on duty’ laugh, “I really only came to get this lump. Not to act like we’re giving last goodbyes. “

Steve reluctantly pulls back from Sharon’s solid muscle-metal hug and gives a quiet laugh, “So the fact that I gotta say goodbye now -?”

“Shut up,” She says, kindly.

“You started it.”

Sam chuckles behind Steve and lets go of him to slide beside Sharon. “Alright, you two.”

Sharon shakes her head and Steve resists sticking his tongue out at her. Sam digs his finger back into Steve’s side and he laughs instead, can’t help it. They’re both grinning at him now, their joy like sun on his winter skin.

He breathes in.

“We’ll see you around, okay,” Sam says, like a reminder.

“Yes, Steve,” Sharon adds, a bit more like she’s talking to a toddler, “Extremely soon-like, even.”

“I _know_ ,” Steve says.

“Sure,” Sharon gives him one more look like, _I’m onto you_ and _You better get your head in the game_ , all at once.

He nods back and watches them go. It’s really not forever, it’s not for a day, probably.

 _You’re not alone, Rogers, stop acting like it_. He orders himself back into the fray, bites the inside of his lip to stay paying attention to the queue of people asking for his time to talk about themselves. He tries to be kind, but four statespeople in, the general he’s been captured by is legitimately talking about the price of paper in the palace. They’re just starting in on taupe colored 8x10s and Steve’s renewed strength on his goodwill is losing grip.

“Oh, there you are,” a voice says behind him.

 _Tony_.

Steve relaxes into the heat of Tony’s body with relief.

There’s a pause, then Tony presses back, chuckling low, personal, just for them.

“Good evening,” the general is starting to say, perking up.

“Evening,” Tony says, curt. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to have to steal this one. There’s a sculpture I’ve just got to show him.”

“I love sculpture,” Steve rushes to say.

“As do I!” Tony’s showy now, grinning at the general out of the corner of Steve’s eye and directing Steve with a push hidden by their bodies, to the left.

“Goodbye,” Steve bows and nearly trips following Tony.

“All business, all tomorrow,” Tony sends back after them.

The general looks less put out than Steve might’ve expected.

“Took that well,” Steve says.

Tony shrugs. “Quagmire is used to it. Think they think it’s just how people respond to all generals, now, not them personally.”

Steve hides a snigger in Tony’s shoulder. He’s pretty sure quagmire was _not_ the general’s name.

“Thanks for saving me,” Steve says, smiling at him.

“Course,” Tony says, the profile of his face soft.

They’re headed towards the larger exhibition area. It’s part of the area he sadly moped through early post-Sam.  He hasn’t seen any statues or carvings. “Is there actually a sculpture to show me?”

“There was,” Tony allows. He’s watching Steve closely, blue eyes bright in the lights.

“Lead the way, Highness,” Steve says, sweeping a hand and lets Tony pull him along.

He does and they spend hours with the artists, who are less academic with Tony, more into Tony’s enthusiasm and explaining their process in words that don’t assume his familiarity with smudging techniques or crosshatching. It’s relaxing.

“We have anything else on the schedule?” Steve asks around the fifth artist they stop to talk with.

Tony shakes his head. “This and dinner.”

A grimace vies for space on Steve’s face, despite his best efforts to stop it.

“Thoughts, Captain?”

Plaster a smile on there, Captain, that’s right. He nods to an artist grinning at the arm-locked shape of them, and eventually says, “How much are you required to eat for something to qualify as dinner?”

“Ah, philosophical question.”

Steve laughs, dry. He needs to eat a lot, sure, but this is so excessive. Where does the leftover food even go?

“We,” Tony says, slowly, “could probably make off after appetizers if we,” the barest pause, “Go about it the proper way.”

Steve mulls that over for a moment. “Are you asking me to sneak out of our own dinner celebration, Your Highness?”

“We’d have to be a bit more flaunty than sneaky, my dear,” Tony turns to whisper the words against Steve’s cheek.

He can feel Tony’s breath on his skin. If he turned just the slightest, their lips would line up. Steve would know if Tony tastes like all that coffee he’s been downing. _I’ve kissed you_ , Steve thinks, jolting with the realization. Those pink bow lips against his own –

“I wouldn’t be opposed,” Steve says, just as low, careful to not move his face.

He catches the slow exhale Tony makes, against the shallow of his neck and has to resist shivering.

Tony draws back, but someone from the dark in the blue of Tony’s eyes – Steve doesn’t think he missed it. “Well,” Tony drawls, “Then I suppose that could be arranged.”

“Many thanks,” Steve says, imagining pressing a kiss formally to Tony’s hand but stopping just before he gets brave enough to do it.

They’re barely seated and through a seafood appetizer and onto a cold soup sort of thing when Tony leans back over and they’re back where they were, faces close, intimacy like a theater curtain around them.

“Oh,” Steve plays along gamely, whispering like he’s telling the sweetest endearment “The price of paper in the palace.”

Tony turns his snort into a soft giggle and leans further into him and Steve hides a grin into his hair and it occurs to him that he’s actually having fun. They’re having fun. People glance from their conversations at their seats, when they slide away as the entrees and more guests arrive, but aside from a few chuckles and tolerant eye rolls, they’re largely unbothered with.

Expected, almost.

Well, they did tell their courts they were actually _courting_.

Steve tucks the thought under his tongue, lets people watch them.

Arm in arm, they leave the loud hall behind. Two guards peel off to follow them across the wing to the personal halls, but tapering off there and Tony finally pulls away from Steve, but doesn’t go far. The distance casual and finally not performative between them. Steve steps to a slow halt.

They look at each other for a moment, blue to blue, one country to the other.

There’s something they’re trying here and Steve hopes to high heaven its working.

“This was nice,” Tony says, leaning back against the wall. “Barring the four hour meals.”

“It was, yeah,” Steve says honestly, laughs a bit, warmed that Tony would say it, feel it as well. “It was good to see your Expo, some of the art works. Good to see Sam and Sharon, too,” he says, afterthought quiet.

The comment lays between them for a moment. Tony’s gone still, tension creeping into his muscles. Steve frowns, opens his mouth –

“The security system will help you with seeing anyone you want,” Tony says, staring at the coding strips on the wall.

Steve frowns harder. It’s good to know, if he ever has free time again. But, why so somber - “Okay?”

“So,” Tony shrugs, a sharp harsh movement, “If you need to be _discreet about something_ , just tell it, follow the instructions. I don’t,” Tony’s jawline flexes, “blame you. It’s fine.”

What.

“I’m not sure –“ Steve freezes.

Discreet _._

_‘If you need to be discreet about something.’_

His face flares red.

 _I wouldn’t do that. I haven’t slept with anyone since we agreed to this arrangement_ , isn’t something he can say, because he _has_. He spent the night honestly just sleeping next to Sam and Sharon on the way here, just for comfort, even if he hasn’t _since_. Steve grew up living on top of other people, elbows to stomachs, and he’s never kicked that habit. But to say that, he’d have to clarify sleeping versus fucking and that in itself is an admission. He knows nothing about Tony he hasn’t read in a book, or furtively seen these two days – is he okay with that?

Is this his saying he’s okay with it? With. With them fucking other people like finding some sense of warmth in other people’s arms, while weathering this awkward tundra between the two of them?

“Are you -?” Steve barely manages. “Okay with that?”

Tony shrugs. “I think it’s fine if we have our own lives. We aren’t obligated to do anything with each other beyond political administration,” he gestures like he means the day, like he means the day was a complete farce.

Even the nice bits. Even the bit where he pressed closed to Steve and giggled and offered to pretend they were sneaking off to fuck each other. Steve had thought there was some kindness there, something building –

“Right,” Steve says, the word a stone on his tongue.

Tony gives that barely half-smile. “I think I’ll call it an early night, then. Captain,” he nods and turns away.

“Night,” Steve says, feeling bereft and having absolutely no right to. 

Freedom’s been given to him on a gold platter. All he wants to shove it back in the drawer, wants to curl up on it and have someone hold him tight.

Well, he thinks, cold as iron, now he has permission to.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> hey folks. update to progress on this fic - my life has kinda exploded in the last couple of weeks, lots of trauma, lots of drama and all of my fics, but especially my Big, Long fics have especially taken a hit because of that. i really do intend to come back to this when i feel capable and not overwhelmed. thank you for your endless patience ily'all berry much.
> 
> hope y'all enjoy! comments and critiques always loved <3
> 
> the tumblr post for this is [[here]](https://starvels.tumblr.com/post/178194767411/)


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